


Can't Go On

by monaboyd_archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-02
Updated: 2004-02-02
Packaged: 2018-04-11 18:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4447139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monaboyd_archivist/pseuds/monaboyd_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom can't go on like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Go On

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the Monaboyd.net Archive, which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years . To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile.

He can't go on like this.

Billy is in the other room, in the kitchen making tea or toast or something. Dom can hear him moving around, and the occasional clank of dishes. Humming a cheerful little tune. Dom thinks he's going to go insane. He's alone in the living room, alone with the slightly-dusty TV and the couch with sagging cushions. Alone with old cookie crumbs on the carpet and somebody's dirty socks under the coffee table; a scrap of newspaper fluttering on the bookcase that doesn't hold books, only a few DVDs and a video camera and a chipped mug half-full of tea that's at least a week old.

Billy's still in the kitchen, and the sound of his humming is too-bright and painful. Dom would shut it all out if he could. He only knows that he can't go on like this.

It's not the clutter. Dom's used to mess; he's a single guy, after all. It's just that...Billy. Billy's old sock and Billy's cookie crumbs and week-old tea. He's everywhere, even when he's not actually there. And it's driving Dom mad.

He runs fingers through his hair, lets out a silent breath, and sits on the couch with the sagging cushions. It smells like Billy, but not in a bad way. No. Every way's a bad way, like this. Dom shuts his eyes, opens them again. What can he do? Billy doesn't care. Billy doesn't even know. How could he? Dom's keeping it all inside, shut away, until it burns him from the inside out. It's burning him now, or freezing him; Dom can't tell the difference because things can be so cold that they burn, and so hot that they freeze.

Billy's done making tea or toast or something now. He's still humming, and he comes out into the living room holding a mug. Tea, then. Billy wears a green shirt, the same color as his eyes. They're too bright, and Dom has to look away. It's like looking straight at the sun, except this hurts more. Dom hears Billy stop humming abruptly. Dom closes his eyes again, and stares at the flaring blackness behind his eyelids. But Billy's still there.

"Dom?" Billy says softly. Whether it's concern or curiosity or just nonchalance, Dom can't tell. "Dom, you're..." Dom hears the mug clink onto the coffee table, and feels the weight of Billy settle into the couch cushions next to him. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and partly hopes, partly fears, that Billy might leave then.

Billy doesn't leave. A touch on Dom's wrist; Billy's fingers aren't cool or warm but somewhere in between. Dom opens his eyes, but he's just looking down at where his arms rest on his knees, and Billy's touching his wrist. Red, crimson, bright in the same way Billy's eyes are. Billy's fingers smear the blood there, and it stings just a little. Dom can hardly feel it, because of the other pain.

"Why are you doing this?" Billy whispered. Dom looks at the stolen kitchen knife he holds in his other, unmarked hand. Moves, begins to bring the knife back to his wrist. He wants to feel it, and forgot that Billy's right there. Sharp, bright - but Billy grips his hand, and pulls the knife away. "Dom," he says.

Dom wants it now, wants the cold sharp touch of the knife, wants to drag it across the pale skin of his wrist and see the bright blood well up. He wants to feel it so much now, wants to let it cut him and tear him open, because it's a different pain. Different than the kind that's eating away at him inside and making him blink away from Billy's eyes.

But Billy just looks at him with a quiet too-bright gaze, and holds the knife. Keeps it away from Dom.


End file.
